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“So I brought mine,” Earl continued. “Better hinges anyway. Where do you want them?”

She looked toward the arena. I watched her calculate the rows, the dimensions, the latch direction.

“South line,” she said. “Gate ends east. Six-foot service gap between the final panel and the catch pen.”

Earl nodded once. “Figured.”

That was it.

No apology. No mention of where his eyes had gone last week. Just twenty gate panels and a question about placement.

Tuck came around his truck, moving like his sling was a ceremonial sash. “Morning, Cash. Ms. Nair.” His grin got wider. “Good to see you.”

“You too, Tuck.”

He turned toward the flatbed.

I caught the back of his shirt. “No.”

“I’ve got one good arm.”

“You had two good arms last time.”

His ears went red. “I can carry hinges.”

“You can carry breakfast when Boone gets it down here.”

“I can—”

“You can stand clear of the flatbed and provide emotional support.”

He beamed. “I’m real good at that.”

Priya was staring at the sling. Not panicking. Not leaving. Just taking inventory of it: the strap, the set of his shoulder, the fingers moving at his side. “How is it?” she asked.

“Good. Doc says six weeks, but I’m ahead of schedule.”

“You’re not,” Doc said from behind us.

His truck had been the third one. He came across the yard in his ancient Carhartt, stooped forward, white eyebrows already objecting to the day. His old medical bag swung from one hand.

Tuck’s smile slipped. “You said it was healing well.”

“I said you hadn’t made it worse yet. Morning, Priya.”

“Good morning, Doc.”

Doc stopped in front of her and held out his hand.

She looked at it, then put her right wrist into it automatically. He turned her hand over, pressed two fingers along the tendon, and watched her face.

“Still hurts?” he asked.

“It’s functional.”

“Didn’t ask if it could file paperwork.” He released her wrist and looked at me. “She eat?”

“Pie.”